He would be tall and assuming,possibly,wearing arrogance like expensive cologne.Confident in his abilities,unmarried and content.His past safely tucked in his briefcase,carrying hand sanitizer in his pants pocketto mask the scent of Newport’s.Then,and just then,he would reluctantlypick up a loose leaf paperwith my words;brisk and assertive,and he would begin to read.His pupils will dilate,stanza after stanza,until,he is no longer tall,he realizes he can’t take anything for grantedand he wants a wife.Then,just then,his humilitywould open his briefcaseand immediatelyhe would begin organizing his past…

Weeping in vain, on the moving shoulders of men,temporary kisses and widowed promises,drowning into decades of sin and cigarettes,Between birth and death, happiness, and all that fails,yet today, my daddy sings.His song is brief; a silence so loud that nations hearHis song is black and celebrated.He is tropical and amid daughters of heaven and earthand I am established in his lyric.Muse after muse, poetic agony and depression, he stretches for meand I hear his song.

Sing daddy,Tell Barbados that you love me, tell America that I am not lost.You never forgot me.You know my beginning and where I lie. You rescue me,when I am forgotten, amid those empty shoulders of moving men and cussing motherswho borne sisters and brothers of youthand un-forgiveness.You are my deliberate inspiration.My coo-coo and flying fish.My Caribbean, West Indian dream, and I weep for youAs you sing, our song...

i.I keep telling you sorrybut I’m not,neither of us should be.Everytime I think aboutwhat the island did to youI begin burning.I pray I come forth as gold.And now,My eyes are closed.I eat the curried goat and riceand remember to chew slowly,as I honor thy mother…that mydays will be long in this land orrun,from the vacant memorieshanging onto my sister’s voice.She is yelling loudly:“Where is God?”but the island tells usto forget our beginningsand carve our identitiesfrom the ambiguity of darkness,but then,You called to say hello.You cried instead because youcannot control your feelings.You cannot control your appetite.You cannot control your leaving.You called to say sorry.

ii.In the beginning,there was God,and He created you,and I was made from your rib.You touch me and I break.My second nature is to know your pain.And there are menwho love their wivesbecause their wives sing.Their wives make songs that undress,their husband’s insecuritiesmasking it with the strength of God.I write, who will love me?And now,When we kiss I smell the cognacand desperation of an orphan.I cannot stop wanting you.God, help me,I keep reaching for what’s inside the holes.

Search me, God, and know my heart; test me and know my anxious thoughts.See if there is any offensive way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting.*

Your space is full.I’m breaking.God will take your riband mold me a song.

“You are terrifying, and strange and beautiful; something not everyone knows how to love” -Warsan Shire

10 Reasons Why You Refuse to Love Yourself:

Your mum says: “love is a waste of time.”Loving someone who doesn’t have a father can be risky.Your legs housed too many shadows.You’re a sinner.You’re a blemished sacrifice that barely made it over the veil.No one loves a harlot.You’re a sinner.Resisting the devil is harder than you thought.The remnants of rape kiss you as you sit listening to the rain.Loving yourself is war.

You are Black, or maybe Brown. Your hair nappy. You’re youthful and poised; round nose, full lips and thighs as dense as a stack of twenty dollar bills. You sit on the stoop of a “new building” in the hood and read Baraka, Giovanni and sometimes Shakespeare. The older women pass and slip you a fist full of change telling you to buy an icee from the hairy man who doesn’t speak English. Then you grow up, and go “home” every weekend to wash your clothes and talk to your black, or maybe brown mum who calls you white. You tell her that Africa isn’t a state and the reason she doesn’t have wrinkles has nothing to do with placing limes on her eyes but it’s the melanin in her skin. You tell her white is a color and not a language, so you can’t talk “white”. You tell her Bill Clinton was not the first black president and yes you crush on Ben Stiller. Your mum gives you a plate of Cou Cou and flying fish. You appreciate the corn meal and okra parachuting down your throat. The clothes are clean so when you finish eating, you kiss your mum on her cheeks and tell her you’re leaving. She offers you a cigarette and questions your honesty when you tell her you quit. Then you notice her shameful tears slithering from the history of her eyes. She accuses you of ignorance but you hold her anyway and avoid describing your alienation in a world where you were never black or brown just a pariah. Not a Bajan or American, just a fatherless, baby mama without a home. You want to tell her the world never sang your song and the music you invented only lives inside of you, but you grab your laundry and kiss her reminding her you will be back next week. You get on the elevator, dig inside your purse and find your wallet, taking a fist full of change for the black, or maybe brown kids that will be sitting on the stoop…

-KB

﻿"Black or Brown" has been published by Moko, a Caribbean Arts and Letters online journalin Issue 9-July 2016 and is also a part of a larger piece titled: "Little Girls, What Has Ruined You?"﻿mokomagazine.org/wordpress/poems-by-kay-bell/

Let me tell you about the partwhere I am naked;we’re kissing- I think,and you tell me I am beautiful,you tell me that sometimes beautygets ruin by questions,and that my questions are too loud,too boring,too obsceneand I should learnsomehowto control myselfand the little girl inside of me.I stroke my uncovered love,intentionally waiting for silence,but you keep talking:verbal hellish things- I think,you say: “ get dressed”,and: “cover your mouth”, and then: “ kiss me”.I grab the soundless moment beforeour lips touch and ask:“Why would a woman like me,displace herself with you?”And then you are broken,and I am the only one who can see it,and you begin to show me the partwhere you are naked;the part where we never get the chance to kiss.